


Season's Greetings

by O Lord Damn This Alien (IneffableAlien)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alpha Centauri (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley Created the Stars (Good Omens), Domestic Bliss, Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Gardener Aziraphale (Good Omens), Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Holidays, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Fall (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stargazing, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 13,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/O%20Lord%20Damn%20This%20Alien
Summary: An Ineffable Husbands holiday!Responses to a series of fluffy writing prompts from @soft-angel-aziraphale, 2019.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) & Anathema Device, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & God (Good Omens), Crowley & The Them (Good Omens)
Comments: 288
Kudos: 99
Collections: An Ineffable Holiday 2019





	1. Snow

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51622762) 11\. [Walk in the Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51928282) 21\. [Crackers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52305355)  
> 2\. [Ice Skating](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51623497) 12\. [Candles](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51953341) 22\. [Christmas Pudding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52346377)  
> 3\. [Hot Cocoa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51625570) 13\. [Decorating](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51985804) 23\. [Father Christmas/Santa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52380880)  
> 4\. [Caroling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51693853) 14\. [At the Ritz](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52040134) 24\. [Sleigh Bells](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52416031)  
> 5\. [Warm Blankets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51718195) 15\. [By the Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52064650) 25\. [Presents](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52439380)  
> 6\. [Making Cookies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51761950) 16\. [Mince Pies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52082890) 26\. [Boxing Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52482847)  
> 7\. [Lazy Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51789868) 17\. [Music](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52127638) 27\. [Regency](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52516984)  
> 8\. [Holiday Shopping](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51829531) 18\. [Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52161214) 28\. [Snowmen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52526293)  
> 9\. [Tree Trimming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51856798) 19\. [Lights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52224493) 29\. [Angels](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52562170)  
> 10\. [Scarves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/51868663) 20\. [Victorian Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52285237) 30\. [Free Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52640866)  
> 31\. [New Year's Eve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648718/chapters/52697200)

Crowley knew a thing or two about war.

Hell knows, he’d seen enough of it. But it had been literal ages since any demonic designs had landed him on the front lines, and he couldn’t remember ever having to rally troops before. After all, his latest involvement in a war had been … averting a Great One.

“Okay, men—and lady, too, of course,” Crowley said.

He could make this sound good. He’d inspired Shakespeare himself, blessit.

“Right.” He paused. “On the battlefield of life, lie things neither occult nor ethereal. And amongst those things, is valor.” _Hey, that’s not a bad start,_ he thought. “We don’t fight today for riches, or power. We fight to defend our land, and because it is ri— er, wro— eh, it’s bloody _human,_ to fight. So, yeah. Let’s do this.”

The Them nodded sagely. This was no joke to them.

From beyond their embankment, the angel never saw the first snowball coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	2. Ice Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author never learned how to ice skate D:

Aziraphale was gobsmacked. “What do you mean, you don’t know how?”

“You don’t have to rub it in,” Crowley grumbled. “Just, never tried it before.”

“But surely in 6,000 years …” Aziraphale softened his tone when he realized the obvious embarrassment on his demon’s face, anxious amber eyes glowing back at him like a lantern shaking in a mineshaft. _“I am truly honored,”_ said Aziraphale, “that your first time would be with me.”

Crowley smiled shyly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.

“Well,” said Aziraphale, “let’s get on with it then. And don’t look so frightened, my dear boy—it’s only ice skating.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	3. Hot Cocoa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> is critmiss and _i'm soft_

“Aziraphale,” Crowley called out from the kitchen, standing in front of the open food pantry, “what is this?”

Aziraphale looked up from where he sat reading on the couch. “What’s what, dear?”

Crowley’s arm shot up accusingly, and he shook a little blue box.

Aziraphale thought it was rather obvious. “It’s hot cocoa,” he said flatly.

“No,” said Crowley, making a broad sweeping gesture, “it’s not. It’s _Swiss Miss._ When the ingredients start out with corn syrup and whey before chocolate, it’s not hot cocoa, it’s hot … sort-of-like food.”

Aziraphale memorized his page number, and set the book down beside him. He closed his eyes, and mustered up his best resting bitch face. “Crowley,” he said, “which of us do you suppose is more entitled to make value judgments on things that are edible?”

“It’s not edible,” said Crowley, “it’s Swiss Miss.”

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about this,” said Aziraphale.

“About chocolate? Ehh.” Crowley looked away in mild embarrassment. “Well,” he said, “only because of past experiences pairing it with a sparkling red on occasion …”

Aziraphale smiled and stood to join Crowley in the kitchen. He slipped his arm around Crowley’s waist (still a dirty trick, even after all this time, to shut up a demon and deflate any dramatics), and with his other hand he took the box from Crowley’s yielding fingertips and set it on the shelf. “If you must know,” he said, “Madame Tracy brought it, and I have not the heart to disregard a well-intentioned souvenir. Did you know she visited America? She’s developed quite a fascination with things they can eat; they have remarkable constitutions.”

“The box was open,” Crowley murmured playfully, snaking his arms behind Aziraphale’s neck.

“Well, I got curious,” said Aziraphale. “And besides,” he said, narrowing his eyes and letting just a flash of an edge slip into his voice, “anything the humans make has an infinitely more interesting palate story than just miracling things into existence. Every. Night.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley guiltily.

“Say no more, angel,” Crowley said, sealing a kiss on top of Aziraphale’s head. “I’ll break out the double boiler and make you the real thing right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	4. Caroling

Crowley snickered as he saw Aziraphale lug the bulky piece of antique equipment into the bookshop along with a little plastic bag from the thrift store, and swing it all up on the desk. “Really, Aziraphale?” he said. “A boombox?”

“Well, of course, dear,” said Aziraphale, wiping dust off the stereo with a pocket handkerchief. “I did promise the children we’d go a-wassailing, after all.”

“Prepare to be disappointed then,” said Crowley. “We’re going _caroling._ I don’t think anyone’s wassailed since the 19th century.”

Aziraphale looked hopeful. “Does that mean we get hot cocoa instead?”

“All you get for caroling in 2019,” said Crowley, “is a door slammed in your face.”

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, “that’s nothing a little celestial influence can’t improve.”

“But that’s just it,” said Crowley. “Why not just miracle some background music? Or we can use my phone, or you could step into the year 2000 and get an MP3 player …”

“I thought this was more charming,” said Aziraphale. He flashed his best puppy dog eyes at Crowley, effectively preventing any possibility of further debate.

“Whatever you want, angel,” said Crowley. He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, in no small part so he could lean over and snoop in the plastic bag. He burst out laughing when he saw it was filled with Christmas vintage cassette tapes. “All I’m saying is, you’re gonna regret this.”

_“Oh, the weather outside is frightful …  
But the fire is so delightful …  
And since we’ve no place to go,  
**BISMILLAH! No, we will not let it snow! Let it snow! Bismillah! We will not …”**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	5. Warm Blankets

Twas the coldest night in Soho that December, and an angel and a demon moved unnoticed amidst the drunken partygoers, and the lost (or losing) souls.

Every now and then, one or the other would disappear down a damp alley. One or the other would dart into the dark behind some restaurant that had closed for the night.

And one by one, someone would wake up in the bitter chill air: a displaced veteran here, a lady living with schizoaffective disorder there, a transgender kid whose parents had decided that if they didn’t have a son then they _definitely_ didn’t have a daughter.

And those people would wonder to themselves, where certain things had gone, like steel studs which had miraculously sunken down into concrete.

Or they wondered from where things had come, like this pair of socks that couldn’t get wet.

These perfectly sized boots, which in years to come would still fail to fall apart.

Or the mysterious blankets, the ones that forever stayed warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	6. Making Cookies

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, clasping Crowley’s snakeskin-gloved hand by his side and rubbing shoulders, “don’t think I haven’t noticed how soft you are for Christmastime.”

Crowley grimaced and shook his head. “S’just ‘cause I’ve had a hand in so much,” he said. “Let’s just say, Michael Bublé would not be where he is today without my help.”

“Of course that’s it, dear,” said Aziraphale, with a knowing smile. “Downstairs never truly appreciated how utterly demonic you are.” Aziraphale wiggled closer against Crowley’s side, and Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand so he could lazily drape his arm around him as they continued on their stroll.

Crowley slowed to a stop next to a residential building, looking straight ahead. Beside him was a window dressed with pine boughs and red velvet ribbon, its sheer white curtains glowing gold from within. Aziraphale’s heart swelled at the sounds of children laughing inside. Then he noticed Crowley, still looking forward so as not to pry into the flat, raise his top lip in sort of a half-snarl and tilt his head back. Aziraphale knew Crowley’s face like the back of his hand, and Crowley wasn’t angry; he was smelling something.

“Sugar cookies,” Crowley said. “They just took them out of the oven.”

Aziraphale came in front of Crowley and wrapped his arms around his neck. Crowley responded with a quirking smile, and the softest nudging kiss, as he placed his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s waist. They broke back and gazed at each other silently in the frosty night air. Every little sound carried in the empty hush of the city street, and after a moment, Crowley surprised Aziraphale by quietly saying, “Do you ever envy them?”

There was a time when Aziraphale might have lied, said that angels don’t feel envy (or lie), but they were long past that. “Who?” he asked instead. “The humans?”

Crowley nodded. “The kids,” he said. “Well,” he amended, “of course I’m not jealous of _kids._ What I mean is, do you ever get jealous … of _being_ a kid?”

“You’re asking,” said Aziraphale gently, “if I ever wish we’d had childhoods. Like the humans do.”

Crowley looked away, embarrassment sinking in. “I’ve always had this daft little dream this time of year,” he said. “It’s silly.”

“Tell me,” said Aziraphale.

“I can’t believe I’m admitting this,” Crowley grumbled. “Look,” he said, “I know how ridiculous this is, because, we don’t _have_ ‘moms’—well, _I_ don’t have a mom anyway,” he said quickly, and he just knew Aziraphale was about to try to argue some point so he steamrolled on—“but it’s like I’m nostalgic for something that never happened. It’s such a human memory, you know? To be a kid, and be baking Christmas cookies with your mom.” Crowley paused. “I wish,” he said, in the yellow-white of the streetlamps, “that I had a memory of baking cookies, and of having this … sense of wonder, at the world in winter … and the whole house smells sweet, and you’re making something with your hands, with someone who _loves_ you, more than anything, and … and just wants to take care of you. And protect you. And never cast you aside.”

Aziraphale said nothing for a while. Then, he kissed Crowley, long and deep, and rocked back on his heels. There was no one else around, and Aziraphale lifted off Crowley’s glasses, revealing eyes which had been glistening over underneath. “Well,” said Aziraphale, “let’s get home and get on with it, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	7. Lazy Day

It might surprise people who know them to learn, that there was a period of time when it was _Aziraphale_ who had to convince Crowley to come to bed.

When the world didn’t end, and they spent the night at Crowley’s flat, Crowley, out of concern for Aziraphale’s wellbeing, had persuaded him to try out the concept of sleeping things off. He’d even miracled up a full set of satin pajamas, much like his own (only tartan instead of shining black), so that Aziraphale could experience the state properly and comfortably. Then, he had walked Aziraphale to his bedroom, and showed him what “tucking in” was, and by the time he had made it around to the other side of the bed to slither up on top of the blanket, Aziraphale—the angel who didn’t sleep—was out like a light.

He had laid on his side then and watched Aziraphale, his heart slamming against his ribs despite his best efforts to remind it that it really didn’t even need to beat, and he’d thought of every single little thing that could possibly go wrong with their plan to live. He had crawled silently out of the bed, took up perch on the ceiling, and guarded Aziraphale through the night.

The ocular scales of Crowley’s eyes were apparently just human enough to allow space for tears.

After that? They loved each other, and occasionally for a time they were still terrified, never entirely believing they were safe at last. But they would have weeks on end of boundless delight at the sheer realization of the very level of adoration they shared.

They were together more and more, and then it was just natural to notice they were living together, and Aziraphale didn’t even have to try to adapt to Crowley’s schedule. After 6,000 years and barely a nap, Aziraphale almost had a human’s Circadian rhythm—save for instances where he and Crowley lost track of time and didn’t sleep for a couple weeks. Night would fall, as would sleepiness further fueled by habit or wine, and they’d retire to the enormous plush bed which never should have fit inside Aziraphale’s loft. Then they’d lie on opposite sides under the down comforter, gentle fingertips on faces with gentle smiles, and Crowley might kiss Aziraphale’s forehead if he were feeling especially daring.

(Aziraphale took to sloth like … whatever it is a duck takes to, but the two of them wouldn’t get the hang of lust for a while.)

Crowley always closed his eyes, heartbeat quickening, and he could usually tell when Aziraphale had fallen asleep, which was when Crowley would slide out of bed without making a sound and relocate until morning. That pattern continued for several months.

Until late one middle of the night, when they were both burrowed in deep beneath the duvet after an uncharacteristic snowfall in London, Crowley mistook Aziraphale for sleeping, started to roll away, and Aziraphale could no longer contain his curiosity. “Crowley,” he said delicately, “why don’t you ever stay in bed with me?”

Crowley froze, then returned to fully under the covers and faced Aziraphale in the dark. His eyes seemed to glow under the makeshift blanket fort. After what felt like a long time, he said, “I’m afraid.”

“You’re afraid?” echoed Aziraphale. “You mean, you think somebody might still come for us?”

“No,” said Crowley quietly.

“Then what?”

“I’m afraid,” Crowley said, “of wanting things you might not want.” He paused. “You don’t know, angel, you can’t know, how soft and warm you look when you sleep … It makes me want to reach out and touch you so badly. I didn’t want to move too fast.”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, feeling his mouth curving into a smile, “are you trying to tell me, that you sneak out of bed every night because you’re afraid you’ll want to snuggle?”

 _“Pfft,”_ said Crowley. “Demons don’t snuggle.”

“Well,” Aziraphale teased, “it sounds like this one might. And what would make you think I didn’t want to, anyway?”

“Dunno,” said Crowley. “You know how crazy I am about you. And we touch, we hold hands, but we’ve never been … like … that.”

Crowley’s lips parted when Aziraphale moved in closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating off Aziraphale’s chest onto his own. Aziraphale gently laid his hand on Crowley’s cheek. “Like this?” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathed. After a second, he gingerly reached a trembling arm around Aziraphale’s back. “Or, this? Still okay?”

Aziraphale nodded, knowing at least one of them could see in the dark. He shifted toward Crowley until their noses touched. He nudged them together, then ran his hand on Crowley’s cheek back through his hair. “This?”

Crowley was at a loss for words, but his answer was there, in the way he nudged noses back, the way they shared breath.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “let’s not even get out of bed today.

“Let’s just work on making up for lost time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	8. Holiday Shopping

_Was capitalism one of mine?_ Crowley hissed in his mind. _Have I ever come up with a single idea that didn’t bite me in the arse?_

He was driving the Bentley through the countryside, and he was headed nowhere, trying to organize his thoughts. There were a plethora of reasons why Crowley ostensibly shouldn’t have to worry about buying a Christmas present for Aziraphale. For one thing, they were a lot—like, a _lot_ —older than Christmas. He could just as easily be having this non-crisis in regard to, say, Hanukkah, but Crowley was soft for anything that reminded him of Saturnalia. _Now_ there _was a holiday,_ he thought.

_Wait a tick._

Aziraphale walked the tree line surrounding the park, not noticing his own hand-wringing. _Capitalism—was that one of ours?_ Aziraphale wondered.

He felt about ready to tear his hair out. This was their first holiday season that they could truly be together. Aziraphale couldn’t just not honor that, and it would have felt cheap to miracle a gift for Crowley into existence. “But he’s five steps ahead of me on everything,” he moaned miserably. There was no way to surprise Crowley with something he didn’t already own two of, or have a part in designing, short of taking a trip into the future, or leaving the planet entirely.

 _Well, gosh,_ thought Aziraphale.

“You _sure_ that’s what you want?” asked Adam Young. “Only I s’pec if it was me gettin’ something from the past that I would want it to be cool, like, a dinosaur that comes when you call it.”

“No, this is perfect. And I owe ya one, kid. Big time.”

Adam shrugged. “It’s Christmas,” he said. “But don’t go blaming me when he’s disappointed, just ‘cause _you_ coulda got him a dinosaur.”

Adam was old enough and wise enough to know when to keep his mouth shut about the goings-on of grownups. He wasn’t about to let slip to the angel that his husband had been by just about an hour ago.

“And that’s why I was hoping you might help. I know it’s such a giant thing to ask of you, but—”

Adam held up his hand. “No worries,” he said, “I got ya covered.”

 _This is way cooler than the other thing,_ Adam thought, with great approval.

“Oh,” Crowley breathed, flipping open something like a black velvet ring box.

“I know you could get there on your own, but it’s so nice to have a fast pass … Just don’t touch it yet,” Aziraphale said hurriedly, but gently.

“No, I got that,” said Crowley. “I can _feel_ it.” The thing was no bigger than a marble, and hauntingly beautiful webs of gold, indigo, and cyan swirled around inside of it as it sparked white with power.

Crowley carefully closed the box. “Eh, I’m a little embarrassed now,” said Crowley. “I’m not sure my gift stacks up to this.” He passed a basket to Aziraphale and bit his lip.

Aziraphale opened up the basket and peered inside. “Oh, Crowley,” he gasped, “you didn’t!”

Crowley felt his cheeks reddening as he couldn’t help but smile. “I did,” was all he said.

If you have never picnicked at sunrise on Christmas Day, an angel and a demon would highly recommend it. If you get the chance, they say Alpha Centauri is wonderful this time of year. And you simply can’t go wrong with a fresh order of oysters from Petronius’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	9. Tree Trimming

“Stop eating them,” said Aziraphale, setting his needle and thread aside to bat Crowley’s hand out of the bowl. “You barely even like eating, I swear you do things just to irritate me.”

“I would never try to irritate you,” said Crowley, grinning. “It just comes naturally.” He tossed yet another piece of popcorn up in the air, then leaned back, mouth open wide.

Aziraphale made a flicking gesture, and the popcorn coincidentally struck Crowley in the eye. Crowley yelped melodramatically, then rubbed the spot where it landed. “We could miracle up decorations, you know,” he grumbled.

“That’s your answer to everything,” sniffed Aziraphale.

“Not true,” said Crowley. “I am very particular about my poinsettias.” He reached over and crept his fingers over top of Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale softened. “I know, I get it, you like handmade things, and you like traditions,” Crowley said, with an indulgent smile. “Which is why,” he continued, “I thought you might want to start one of our own.”

Crowley leapt up and left the room, and Aziraphale craned his neck curiously. He could hear Crowley shuffling things around somewhere. He returned with a small plain brown box, and he suddenly appeared anxious. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it’s _really_ schmaltzy, it’s all right if you don’t like it …"

“Hand it over,” said Aziraphale, blue eyes beaming with fondness. Crowley gave the box to him, and Aziraphale opened it up to discover … “It’s a tree bauble,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley said nothing, and Aziraphale lifted the ornament out of the box. In no way did it look expensive or impressive; in fact, it had a lot more in common with the kind of thing a child might bring home from art class. It was clear, and it contained several tiny trinkets. Aziraphale held it up to one of the nostalgia-yellow-tinted lights on the tree to illuminate it so he could see better. Atop a fake snow base of white glitter were some pewter-colored charms: a sword, a snake, a potted plant, a stack of books, the numbers for the current year, a wine bottle with two glasses … and two little linked rings, such as one might find tied around a wedding favor.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, “you _made_ this.”

“Yeah,” muttered Crowley, “s’not good. I just thought, maybe we could make one together, every year, only each one would have stuff for the previous year …”

“Like a time capsule,” said Aziraphale. He was genuinely glowing. He examined the bauble some more. “Crowley … you had to have actually _gone inside a crafts store_ to get these things.”

“Eh, about that,” said Crowley, “I might have accidentally signed us up for scrapbooking classes in the new year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	10. Scarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A limerick, on fashion accessories and misunderstandings.

_There once was a demon of style_

__

__

_Whose love offered a scarf without guile,_

_But the angel was shocked_

_To find him tied and locked,_

_Ready for an alternative lifestyle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	11. Walk in the Park

It looked different in the snow.

Funny how snow creates an illusion of warmth. There’s something about a fresh, glittering dusting of white which beckons, that tricks the mind into imagining something you’d love to hunker down in as if amongst the fluffiest clouds. The snow on the roof was like that, enveloping the structure with an inviting sense of comfort. Surrounding it on the ground below, the snow was pure and untouched, and tendrils of penny-pink sunset refracted from hill to hill.

It had been a wonderful winter walk, with Crowley shivering and glued to Aziraphale’s side, mittened hands playfully grasping at each other’s coat pockets. Crowley, walking backwards, started drawing Aziraphale up the concrete steps. It even looked like a little Christmas decoration, with its emerald and ruby beams; something you might find under the tree, alongside toy train tracks.

“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale, with a touch of sorrow, “why ever are we stopping here, of all places?”

Crowley slipped his arm around Aziraphale’s back and pulled him in tight with his other hand, like a waltz position. “Because I’m not afraid of anywhere with you,” he said, kissing him soft and slow. “Because we can make any place good again, as long as I’m with you.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, eyes glistening.

“I’m in this with you, angel, no matter what,” Crowley promised. He gestured around the bandstand. His eyebrows were drawn up in the middle, serious as anything—until it was clear he was trying not to laugh. “Even if,” he snorted, _“it hasn’t always been a walk in the park …”_

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Did. **You. Just—”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	12. Candles

Napping had grown on Aziraphale, he had to admit.

It was the inevitable progression of spending time around Crowley, just seeing how peaceful he was when he slept. But Aziraphale was not a sound sleeper. Unless he was curled up in Crowley’s arms, he was more of a cat-napper, and easy to rouse.

Aziraphale jumped straight out of bed when the heavenly toasted-sugar aroma started to fill the room. Something was going on downstairs, something which sang of cinnamon and … _and cream cheese glaze._

Crowley must have _really_ outdone himself.

Aziraphale stormed down the stairs with all the grace and restraint of a toddler on Christmas morning, ready to dive headfirst into the kitchen. Instead, he made it so far as the study area (more or less their living room these days) before he came upon Crowley, sitting on the couch, with his feet up, completely engrossed on his phone. When Crowley lowered the screen, Aziraphale’s heart sank. Crowley had that blasted red play button displayed, which meant that he could not have possibly found time to bake or do much of anything else that required concentration. (Crowley took his debates on that particular “application” quite seriously, especially this time of year, when frequently he felt called upon to defend Mariah Carey’s honor.)

“What …” Aziraphale’s voice trailed as he gesticulated weakly.

“What’s wrong?” asked Crowley.

“I thought you were baking,” he said blankly. “I smelled cinnamon rolls.”

“Ohh!” said Crowley, understanding. “My new candles!”

“What … ?”

Crowley gestured at the coffee table. There were several large candles in festive glass holders. “They’re all Christmasy!” he said proudly. When Aziraphale said nothing, he continued, “I’m getting into smelly candles. Look, this one even looks like a real cinnamon roll!” More silence from Aziraphale. “Don’t tell anyone,” Crowley added.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale darkly, “I have no intention of telling anyone that my husband would betray me in such a wicked fashion.” Aziraphale assumed a thousand-yard stare—an angel who had _seen_ things, and barely survived. “Nor would I want anyone to know that I would stay with him in spite of such flagrant abuse.”

Crowley laughed. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting, maybe a little?”

When Aziraphale failed to reply, Crowley gave his best flash bastard smile, eyebrow arched. “What,” he said, “am I not enough pure cinnamon roll for you?”

Crowley might have been the one to get Aziraphale into sleeping, but he sure as Heaven didn’t get to sleep in the bed that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	13. Decorating

The cottage was nearly decorated for Christmas, and it was magnificent. Crowley and Aziraphale had somehow managed to meet in the middle of their individual styles, and the result was at once both elegant and charming. The theme was mostly dark hues, milky white, and earthy shades of gold, with unembellished pine boughs everywhere. Aziraphale never would have believed that the color black could be appropriate for Christmas, but the lush velvet ribbons which cascaded down the tree and curled around the mantle spoke of the starkness of winter, whilst the tiny flames from the piles of cream-colored pillar candles reflected the promise of warmth in their fibers.

(Fascinatingly enough, any fire lit inside the cottage found itself rendered harmless to light anything by accident. It was unclear if the cottage itself was blessed for safety, or if all flames were cursed to a life of ennui and low self-esteem.)

The fireplace was lit, and two long alabaster stockings hung out of its reach. Crowley was curled up on the couch, gazing into the fire, with his feet tucked beneath him, and it touched Aziraphale to see him be so still and serene.

Aziraphale kissed his cheek, and Crowley tilted his face to nuzzle against pillow-soft lips. “I’m going to step out,” said Aziraphale. “Just long enough to stretch my legs.” He didn’t have to ask Crowley if he wanted to come along. They were long at a point in their relationship where Crowley knew he was welcome, and that furthermore, they were also welcome and confident to be apart.

It is sometimes easy to forget that the latter can be just as comforting.

Crowley turned to leave a lingering kiss on Aziraphale’s mouth. “I think I’ll stay in,” he murmured absently. “It’s pretty cold. I’ll nap ’til you get back.”

“Less than an hour, I should think, my love,” said Aziraphale.

But when Aziraphale returned, Crowley was no longer on the couch. Aziraphale went in the bedroom, and the bed was empty and unruffled. Before he could start to panic, Aziraphale took a second to let his ethereal essence radiate throughout the house, poking and sensing to find Crowley’s smoky uncoiling energy. _How odd,_ thought Aziraphale, _I was just_ in _the living room._

He followed the tendrils of Crowley back toward the couch. Aziraphale was not worried anymore (Crowley felt happy and healthy as read by his angelic form), merely confused.

Then Aziraphale saw it. One stocking, the one embroidered with a large silver “C,” drooped a little lower than its partner. Aziraphale couldn’t hold back an adoring smile as he gently pulled forth the mouth of the sock. The white wool was sinfully toasty and snug from its proximity to the burning logs.

“You precious thing,” Aziraphale whispered to the tiny dozing snake.

Aziraphale left the room silently. He made himself a cup of tea, then returned to the couch to watch the fire. “Perhaps some of these decorations ought to remain up all year,” Aziraphale chuckled quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	14. At the Ritz

> _Haven’t really tried to do this since the 17th c. Not much of a poet, me, but had to put something in this card._
> 
> __
> 
> __
> 
> _Sorry it’s not great._
> 
> _“At the Ritz”_
> 
> _Aureate ropes, flaxen as your hair,  
>  Form waves o’er awnings oceanic,  
>  Which pale to orbs of blue so rare._
> 
> _‘Round marble, stars in garlands snake;  
>  Would if I could build more for you,  
>  To match those in my eyes you make._
> 
> _(Bring scones, with your best clotted cream!)  
>  You think such things disinterest me,  
>  But of your pleasure is all I dream._
> 
> _If miracles were gone tomorrow,_  
>  _And mortals’ poorest lot were we—  
>  No Champagne toasts, no warmth by fire—  
>  I’d still feel rich with you by me._
> 
> _Love you, angel._
> 
> _Happy Xmas_
> 
> _-C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	15. By the Fire

Crowley was wondering if perhaps the angel hadn’t gotten _too_ good at tempting, as a result of getting to exercise that skill by way of their large-A Arrangement, all those years ago.

That was the only possible explanation he could find for how Aziraphale had managed to talk him into going camping.

In December.

They were in the South Downs, but it would be some time yet before they discovered and moved into their little cottage closer to the coast and the famous chalk hills. Crowley still had his flat in Mayfair, but he could not deny that this was breathtaking. The sunken footpath that Aziraphale had led them on was carved out in such a way as to create the illusion of burrowing through a tunnel walled on all sides by a thicket of trees. That had then opened up to a sprawling chalk grassland with such a clear countryside that they had been able to spot the sea.

Crowley scooted closer to the fire, his teeth chattering so hard that they felt infernally sharp against his lips, too spent in energy to focus on remaining fully human. “You know, angel,” he said, “a picnic for an hour or two is one thing, but I’m not seeing how this could possibly be your scene. And don’t people usually do this sort of thing in summer?”

Aziraphale tutted. “I assure you, my dear,” he said mysteriously, “I brought you here during what is the darkest time of the year for a reason. Besides,” he added, “you know as well as I do that the instant we retire into that tent, that it is going to be as spacious and heated as we desire …”

“‘Glamping,’” said Crowley, tasting the word proudly. “That was mine, that was. I coined that.” Aziraphale drew Crowley to his side, pulling another blanket tight around them both. The fire crackled beautifully, sparking dust-sized specks of crimson into the sky. Crowley nuzzled into Aziraphale’s neck, the frigid air around them making the warmth radiating there that much even sweeter. “Okay, I get it,” Crowley conceded. “This is …” He trailed off to kiss the underside of Aziraphale’s jaw.

Aziraphale rested his chin on Crowley’s head. “Crowley,” he started, “when was the last time that you really got away from London?”

Crowley frowned. “I guess it’s been a while,” he admitted. He absently noted that he had stopped shivering as they wrapped their arms around each other beneath the blankets. The sun was almost fully set by this point.

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s hair, and Crowley made a pleased little sound under his ministrations. “It’s a new moon tonight,” Aziraphale murmured into burnished red waves that caught the glow of the fire.

A beaming smile dawned across Crowley’s face as he finally caught Aziraphale’s drift. “Oh, is that right?” he said affectionately. He looked up at the show of individual stars bursting through the deepening indigo. For a while, they were both silent.

“Like old times out here, wouldn’t you say?” asked Crowley. “Before the big cities, the way they are now.”

 _“Old times_ indeed,” Aziraphale chuckled. “Ancient, even.”

Soon the only lights cast were those of the fire and, at last, of the Milky Way.

It may or may not have been a miracle, that there was not a single cloud in sight over Sussex that Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	16. Mince Pies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I searched like five different recipes and I still don't understand what a mince pie is.

“It’s so cute that you’re going to bake together,” said Anathema. “But, as the resident clueless American, I gotta ask … what _is_ a mince pie, anyway?”

Crowley and Aziraphale both jumped in to answer at once.

“Oh, they’re scrumptious, my dear girl, it’s mutton, with sweet—”

“They’re these little dessert thingies, with apples, and spices—”

There was a beat of silence, before Aziraphale and Crowley turned, slowly, to stare blankly at each other.

Anathema got the distinct feeling one gets when they accidentally out their best friend for being an Android user to his Apple-obsessed boyfriend that he met on Scruff.

Just an oddly specific example. Definitely not something she ever did.

“What are you talking about,” Aziraphale said to Crowley flatly. It didn’t sound like a question.

Crowley laughed, which Anathema noted did the exact opposite of lightening the mood. “Angel,” he said, “nobody’s made those gross things you’re talking about since the 1800s.”

“Guh— gro— I—,” Aziraphale sputtered. “Crowley, these things don’t change! We’re not, we’re not talking about this century’s protocol for proper courtship procedure, or which bebop is currently in style, we’re talking about the basic definitions of food!”

“Food changes all the time!” said Crowley, throwing his arms theatrically. “Wha, just last week that Jamaican food truck in Hoxton stopped selling the soy patties—”

“That doesn’t change the meaning of the word _‘patty,’”_ snapped Aziraphale, _“and nobody ever used to order the soy!”_

_“I liked the soy!”_

Anathema interrupted desperately, trying to sound bright. “Hey! Why don’t you guys make both?”

Aziraphale and Crowley eyed one another suspiciously. Predictably, it was Crowley to drop his shoulders and look sheepish first. He chuckled at himself. “You know I just want to make anything with you, angel,” he said.

“I may have gotten a bit carried away,” Aziraphale admitted, taking Crowley’s hand. “I’d be positively chuffed to look over your recipe with you, my dear.”

Anathema’s heart swelled. _Now that,_ she thought, _is true love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	17. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely you knew there'd be a carol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sung to the tune of["O Holy Night"](https://youtu.be/MptnOJsIlyE)_

“An Omens Night”

_Ill-fated night, the strikes from darkness sounding,  
It is the night, I first doubt all I know  
Long lay my heart, afraid of its own pounding  
’Til he appeared, and set my soul aglow  
A thrill of hope, though terror overtakes me  
Who can I trust, should all this be a lie?  
Don’t let me Fall; O grant this angel mercy!  
O night I’m thine, O night, that split the sky  
O night I’m thine, O night, O night I’m thine_

**Cast down aside, believed in no alliance,  
Denied my pain, and forged onward alone  
Now here you are, in your own fears’ defiance  
Crack wide my heart, and claim all that you own  
The Death of deaths, lay thus in vessel lowly  
Do I deserve, for you to change your mind?  
Fall on my knees, to hear you say go slowly!  
I wait for you, I wait, to you entwined  
I wait for you, I wait, I wait for you**

_**O take my hand, your eyes so brightly shining  
I look to you, and know my life’s been saved  
So long I’ve yearned, in deep despair and pining  
Let I be worth, every hurt you have braved  
Cast off those chains, we’ll take this chance together  
For yonder breaks, a new and glorious morn!  
Give me your love, your kiss, light as a feather  
O toast the world, the world; to you I'm sworn  
O toast the world, the world, you, my whole world** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	18. Wine

It wasn’t so unusual to see Crowley slide right off the sofa. What was new, since the world didn’t end, and they were free to be left alone on their own side, was how he clutched Aziraphale’s shirtfront when it dawned on him that he was dropping to the floor, and brought the angel toppling down with him in a fit of shared laughter. Aziraphale lunged past Crowley’s shoulder to grab one of the many throw pillows off the couch, which he then used to promptly assault him, producing an audible _thwack._

Crowley, still snickering, threw his palms up in mild self-defense. “Careful,” he said with a leer, “or I will miracle every _ssssingle_ one of those to say _‘Live, Laugh, Love.’”_

“You wouldn’t _dare,”_ Aziraphale growled with faux menace, eyes narrowing at the thought.

Crowley shifted onto his knees and leaned in so their noses touched. “Try me,” he threatened, his devilish grin glinting in the low light of the fireplace. Instead, Aziraphale gently pushed him back against the couch bottom and cupped his cheek in his hand as they kissed lazily.

They tasted the spices clinging to their mouths, and Crowley damn near purred. They were playing a newly invented game of “Christmas around the world,” right from the warmth of their own cottage. They had thus far slaughtered some hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps, wassail, coquito, hot buttered rum, and so many more. Crowley broke the kiss to skitter across the floor on his hands and knees and grab an iridescent violet-black feather. It had been magically sharpened to a severe point like a quill pen, and had in fact been shrunk down a great deal as well.

“Not so fast, you wily serpent,” said Aziraphale. He picked up a similarly cut and sized feather from the coffee table, this one mother-of-pearl in color and patina. “You took the last turn.”

Crowley shuffled back to notch himself in under Aziraphale’s arm, which was lying across the couch cushions behind them. He arched an eyebrow. “You make it sound like I would cheat.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” said Aziraphale dryly. “Now, you be quiet, and don’t you try to d-dis— dist— mess me up.” Aziraphale drew the feather back by his temple, serious expression set as stone. Just as Crowley was about to make a move to put his tongue to Aziraphale’s ear, Aziraphale flung the dart across the room. It dug into Crowley’s old globe, which was hovering in midair, and sent it spinning.

“Well?” Crowley made no attempt to mask his excitement. “Where to next?”

Aziraphale swiped his finger through the air, and the globe turned several inches in reply. He squinted, possibly too drunk to remember that he didn’t need to squint. “Italy … Rome!” he announced gleefully.

Crowley snapped his fingers, and their glasses on the coffee table refilled from the bottoms up with steaming red wine topped with orange zests. The intermingled aroma of cinnamon, cloves, and anise unfolded in the air.

They gazed into each other’s eyes with fond nostalgia and smiled. “Mulled wine,” they said together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	19. Lights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between Christmas shopping and writing other fics, I'm getting caught up on these! :)

Festooned above them were icy blue-white garlands of light, from which swayed enormous woven balls of glittering gold, the spiking bulbs from each looking like cloves on fire on electrified pomanders. Crowley always liked the stars best, those white ones shaped like the traditional image of the Star of Bethlehem, and dozens of them twinkled warmly in the freezing air.

The brass band played, and notes of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” drifted over the crowd.

Crowley elbowed Aziraphale playfully in the side. “Isn’t this song about Gabriel?” he snickered. “Doing all that _heralding?”_

Aziraphale bit off a laugh while giving a little shove back. “Stop!” he hissed, cheeks red not just from the bitter cold but from his demon’s boisterous public antics all night as well.

“You love it,” mumbled Crowley into Aziraphale’s ear. “You love me, you know you do …” He kissed him on the cheek, and reached down to take his hand.

“Now pay attention,” said Aziraphale schoolmarmishly, pretending to be serious but utterly failing to sound at all so, “they’re telling the story …”

“Right,” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s hair, “because we weren’t there or anything …” As the speaker onstage droned away, Crowley hooked one finger over Aziraphale’s scarf and slid it out enough to trail distracting kisses down his neck.

“That tickles!” said Aziraphale, play-fighting him off. They continued on like that, teasing and cuddling together (and just generally being That Couple), until the crowd started to count down.

_“10, 9, 8 …”_

Crowley was yelling the count as obnoxiously as any human, while Aziraphale was cracking up behind his gloved hands at the dramatics of it all. _“OI, ANGEL!”_ Crowley shouted unnecessarily. _“HOW WILL THEY KNOW WHEN TO LIGHT IT IF YOU'RE NOT COUNTING?”_

__

__

_“… 5, 4, 3 …”_

Aziraphale was laughing so hard he could hardly breathe, but he relented, calling out into the night like the best of them: _“… 2, **1!”**_

Trafalgar Square cheered and clapped, and Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his coat, kissing him deeply, as they basked in the greenish glow of the seventy-foot tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	20. Victorian Christmas

Crowley spun in front of the full-length mirror in her flat and admired her reflection shamelessly. There had been no real need for her to shake up her effort tonight, but vanity had driven her to want to fill out her costume as prettily as possible. Crowley’s preferred corporation in this presentation was still slender, but she was proud of her slight curves nonetheless. You could hardly blame a demon for being a tad narcissistic, now could you?

The balconette style of the lush garnet-colored satin cupping her breasts barely concealed her nipples, and the panels that encased her belly pinched in such a way that softened the sharper angles of her hips. That impossible hourglass illusion was further heightened by the black lace shadowing her sides. Between her cleavage, where one might traditionally find a tiny bow, a crystal charm of a snake coiled. Crowley adjusted the black straps of the ensemble, and sighed at the huge assortment of heels from which she had to choose. She would not miracle shoes or her feet, this was a Louboutin night, dammit.

(If Aziraphale had been present, he probably would have told Crowley that all those shoes looked the same so please pick a pair. This comment would not have been well-received.)

And, of course, topping her cascading red curls, cheekily perched a fluffy Santa hat.

Aziraphale arrived and stepped inside without knocking, and Crowley stared. Aziraphale looked handsome as ever, of course, that wasn’t the problem. But as far as Crowley could tell, he hadn’t really changed. She strongly suspected that he wore the same coat, pants, and waistcoat as always. He had at least switched out his usual tartan bowtie for an ascot in the same pattern, and he was wearing short laced-up boots in place of loafers. The most obvious addition was that of a white top hat and gloves.

Aziraphale gasped, deeply scandalized. “My dear boy—,” he said, “my dear girl—that is, my dear …” He was positively sputtering. “Forgive my intrusion! I shall leave you to get dressed …”

 _“‘Get dressed,’”_ Crowley repeated thickly.

Crowley swallowed. “Angel,” she said slowly, “did you say the party theme tonight was a Victorian Christmas, or _Victoria’s Christmas?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	21. Crackers

_Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale  
His infinite variety._

“What the deuce?” Aziraphale wondered out loud.

He had only gone out for about an hour or so, but he had returned to find a Christmas cracker square in the middle of his desk. It had to be from Crowley, it was blatantly his style, black with serpentine red embellishments, and besides, who else had access to the bookshop? So, he’d curiously popped it open right then and there.

A single gold coin had tumbled out and spun on the desk before it fell flat. He’d fished a piece of paper out of the cardboard tube, and he’d rolled his eyes, expecting corny cracker jokes, but instead finding a sentence by Shakespeare (pronouns notwithstanding).

Aziraphale held the gold coin up to the light coming in the window, and was stunned to see it was a rare old angel-noble. _What’s this all about?_ he thought. He slipped it in his pocket, then reread the line and wondered if the rest of the scene might hold some clue. He stood up to retrieve the Complete Works and flipped it open to Act II, Scene 2 of _Antony and Cleopatra._

Bookmarking it was a folded strip of wax paper, which Aziraphale opened to reveal pressed, dried scarlet geraniums.

St. James’s Park.

Aziraphale felt like an idiot. It was too cold to be wandering around the park, and he was probably reading too much into things anyway. Crowley wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of arranging a scavenger hunt. And even if he had, where was Aziraphale supposed to go from here? The park was a big place, after all. Just as Aziraphale was about to head over to the closest spot for feeding the ducks, he was interrupted by a man’s voice behind him.

“Oi, sir!” Aziraphale turned, and he was taken aback to see that in this frigid weather, at this evening hour, an ice cream vendor was out. Before he could respond, the man held out a strawberry lolly. “I was told to give you this, sir,” the man said.

“Gosh,” said Aziraphale, taking the proffered treat, “thank you. Uh, this individual who instructed you—where did they leave to next?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir,” said the vendor. “He just said to tell you, don’t be so quick to throw things out.”

Aziraphale had decided to not be cold long enough to enjoy the lolly. He had sat down on a wooden bench to eat it, and he was now discovering that there were words printed on the stick.

Aziraphale beamed when he read them:

_A table for two has just miraculously come free._

Sure enough, Crowley was waiting there for him at the Ritz, and Aziraphale felt an impossibly wide grin stretch over his face. “Crowley,” he said, sitting down, “did you go to all this trouble just to invite me to dinner?”

Crowley sat very still, and even Aziraphale found it difficult to read the expression behind his sunglasses. “Felt like making it memorable,” he said mysteriously. “Christmas, I mean.” He nodded to the young waiter, who filled their Champagne flutes and then left them alone.

Aziraphale was touched. “That was incredibly … sweet of you,” he said, hoping Crowley wouldn’t take too much offense at his words.

“Well,” said Crowley, looking away, “I might have something else for you, too.” He was rolling an inch or two of the tablecloth between his fingers.

Aziraphale played along. “Oh, might you now?”

Crowley made a noncommittal noise. “I don’t suppose you have a coin on you.”

Aziraphale pulled the gold coin out of his pocket.

“It’s from 1601,” said Crowley, one corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “How about you toss me for your surprise?”

“I seem to recall,” Aziraphale said, looking askance, “some foul play in past matches …”

Crowley’s face betrayed nothing, but he sounded more serious now. “I think it’s going to go differently this time.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Heads,” he said. He tossed the coin, catching it on his wrist, and then, amused, showed Crowley how it had landed thus.

“Astonishing,” said Crowley dryly. He reached under the table, to produce another cracker, this one white with gold. He placed it in Aziraphale’s hand.

“Well, go on then,” said Crowley. “I’ve wanted to give you this for a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)
> 
> _(Am I silly for thinking an entity as powerful as Crowley might find it meaningful to go about this in such a simple and profoundly earthly way? Maybe.)_


	22. Christmas Pudding

Crowley and Aziraphale stared down at the stamped box in the middle of the kitchen table as if it might contain a bomb. It had come addressed to the bookshop from Tracy and Shadwell (although Crowley strongly suspected that Shadwell had no idea that he had gone to all the trouble of sending a gift and signing his own name to it); shaking the box revealed that its contents shifted easily, and it was exactly the right size and shape to contain a prepackaged …

“Fruitcake,” Crowley guessed glumly. “One of those little two-pound tin jobs.”

The frown that Aziraphale had been wearing ever since he brought in the mail deepened. _“Christmas pudding,”_ he countered.

A growl of pure agony wrenched its way out of Crowley’s throat.

“My foodie senses are positive of it,” Aziraphale said miserably. “That box, could only contain Christmas pudding.”

“Why?” Crowley whined like a child. “Why does she hate us?”

“It’s a tradition,” Aziraphale said gently. “She was trying to be nice.”

“‘Nice’ is a four-letter word,” Crowley grumbled.

The two were silent for what seemed to be a long time, until a grin slowly started to work its way across Crowley’s face. “I got this,” he said. He snapped his fingers.

Aziraphale looked shocked. “Crowley!” he admonished. “You can’t just change it, that was a gift!”

“I didn’t _change_ it,” Crowley said, tearing the cardboard open to reveal a bottle of Armagnac. “This is just what they call … cutting out the middleman.

“Besides,” Crowley continued, “deconstructed desserts were _my_ idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	23. Santa

“You can _not_ be an elf in all black,” said Aziraphale. (He was technically on the clock as Brother Francis, but he was also currently dressed as Santa for the Dowlings’ Christmas party, and he was as much Brother Francis as he was actually Santa Claus.)

“Nanny Ashtoreth” threw her hands up in clear frustration. “Why not?” she demanded to know. The argument had been going for a while now.

“You look … you look …” Aziraphale was tripping over his own thoughts trying to formulate an appropriate response to that. He wanted to say that Crowley looked ridiculous, but that wasn’t the truth, now was it? Looking ridiculous was hardly the problem.

Nanny looked sexy as Hell.

“What I mean to say is,” said Aziraphale, blushing furiously, “well—Crowley, you’re wearing _fishnets,_ for Heaven’s sake.”

“Ahh,” said Crowley, believing she understood. “You think Cuban heel stockings would be more appropriate.”

“What? No!” Aziraphale sucked in his breath, trying desperately to not picture Crowley in anything sheer having a backseam.

Crowley poked Aziraphale in the middle of his furry red coat with one long black stiletto-filed nail. _“You’re_ the Santa,” she said. “You’re the one everyone pictures a certain way, there’s no right way to be Santa’s elf!”

“Elves are jolly!” Aziraphale said. “They, they wear friendly colors, like green, and gold …”

 _“Pfft,_ don’t tell me how I’m allowed to be an elf,” said Crowley, who at this point was only being difficult for fun. “I’ll unionize the lot of us!”

Aziraphale ran his hand down his face, looking exhausted. “My dear girl,” he asked, “isn’t there anything I can do to get you to be a bit more cooperative?”

“Oh, I can think of some things,” said Crowley, grinning. She laid her palm flat on the bricks behind Aziraphale’s head. “You could, I dunno … slip a sable under the tree, for me,” she purred.

“Oh, no,” said Aziraphale.

“I mean—I have been an awful good girl and all, wouldn’t you say?”

“Please don’t. That song is simply awful.”

Crowley brought her face in much too close to Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale thought his knees might buckle under the hot flick of her breath. “Come on, Santa baby … hurry down my chimney, won’t you?”

It was a good thing Warlock was too old to believe in Santa, because Santa never did make it to that party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	24. Sleigh Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale disagree, Crowley's right.

_Sleigh bells ring, are you listening?  
In the lane, snow is glistening …_

__

__

_“THERE!”_ Crowley on the couch shot up at dramatically breakneck speed, almost sloshing his Beaujolais all over Aziraphale’s lap. “Right there!” he shouted, gesturing madly. “How can you say it’s not, it’s right there in the song, that’s just _one_ of the songs, that—”

“Proves absolutely nothing,” Aziraphale sniffed. “A Christmas song alone does not something Christmas make.”

“It’s not just that song!” Crowley had a manic gleam in his amber eyes, illuminated by the fairy lights reflected from the tree; it was the look of a demon who desperately knew that he was right, was only stating a fact, blessit, just to be rebuked time and time again. “Satan, I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. It’s everything! It, it, it’s the party, it could only happen at Christmas, it’s _the time of miracles—”_

“There is not a single true Christmas miracle throughout this entire vulgar production!”

Crowley made a deeply offended sound of horror. _“No real miracles,_ no—no, you are ridiculous,” he said with a scowl. “I don’t know why I’m still talking to you.”

Aziraphale simply smiled, and elected not to point out that Crowley, after his outburst, had returned right back to his spot nestled under his arm. “Well, be that as it may, we are watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ next,” he stated.

Meanwhile, on the TV screen dimly glowing in the darkened shop, a group of terrorists continued to take over Nakatomi Plaza.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	25. Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christ's story is ultimately bittersweet, and so Christmas is, also.
> 
> That is in no way meant to equate our little serpent with a character like Jesus, but I bring you Christmas angst nonetheless.
> 
> But you already knew that from the added tags.

The humans would call it “NN Serpentis.” They’d call it a binary star system. They’d have fascinating science, and specific naming conventions, and they’d pick things apart to try and understand because they were so clever that they couldn’t always see the forest for the trees. But he had no way of knowing any of that.

You might think it was intentional on his part for the rest of it to form a serpent, but serpents hadn’t even been invented. Perhaps that was one of Her many jokes. Was he a joke to Her?

“Angel of the Northern Sky,” She addressed him one beautiful night (night wasn’t a thing yet, and _all_ the “nights” he made, for lack of a better term, were beautiful). Her Voice had always been at once full of love yet terrifying, but he did not know this, because he had never known terror.

All he knew was Her love.

“Yes, Mother?”

“What is this thing that you have made?”

Oh, right. That. He smiled quirkily. “You’ll like this,” he promised. “See, they orbit each _other.”_

“I see that,” She said. “They’re wonderful.”

That was positive, wasn’t it?

Her Voice had a strange heavy quality, and one day he would know that this was what sadness sounded like. “They love each other, don’t they, My little Starmaker?”

He shifted. He was … What was he? Was there a word for it? _(“Uncomfortable.”)_

“I think they do,” he said softly. “Look,” he said, brightening, “they’re different. This one’s red, and the other one’s white—”

“Yes,” She said, still heavily. “They shall look amber and blue-tinted from the earth. And I understand why you wanted those colors, even if you don’t understand it.” He felt an awesome warmth about his being, like there were great tender arms wrapping it. It was the way you hug someone for the last time.

He said nothing.

“Why did you add something new to My Plan, My love?”

“Don’t You like them?” he asked. He suddenly had knowledge of a new emotion, and he didn’t like it. It … hurt. “Why does it all have to be perfectly planned out all the time? We’re artists, I was being creative, doesn’t that please You? And if it doesn’t, why would You make any of us that way? Why—”

“Oh, you please Me so very much, little one,” She said, as quietly as Her Voice would allow. “You have given the world so many gifts already with your talents. But that’s just it: it is a worldly present, isn’t it? You made this with someone in mind, and that someone was not Me.” He felt fingers stroke his cheek, and he leaned ever innocently into the touch. “Know that you have more gifts to give,” She said. “You will be a great gift to him to come, and although others might never believe it … you are ushering in one of my finest presents for _them._

“And I hope you understand someday, that you were always a gift to Me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _NN Serpentis_
> 
> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	26. Boxing Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this joke's been made, but my stupid American ass is doing the best it can with these prompts lol

Crowley was jerked violently awake on the couch by a loud banging on the bookshop door. He didn’t know what he expected when he flung it open, but it certainly wasn’t Anathema Device wearing the goth equivalent of gym clothes and carrying a cute little pair of black boxing gloves slung over one shoulder.

“Wha,” he said.

“Hey, Crowley,” said Anathema, stepping inside past him. She dropped the gloves on a table.

“Is that Anathema?” Aziraphale shouted from upstairs. “I’ll be right down, dear!”

“No worries!” Anathema called back, flopping down on the couch to wait.

“What?” said Crowley eloquently.

“Oh, sorry,” said Anathema, “I’m borrowing your angel.” Crowley gaped wordlessly, so she continued, chuckling, “Well, it’s just—you were asleep for 24 hours, and we started texting on that phone you got him, and … we both sort of realized we don’t _do_ anything. He spends time with you, and I spend time with Newt, and it would be nice to just have, you know, a friend.” She paused. “Plus he didn’t want to wake you.”

“Huh,” said Crowley, scratching the back of his neck. “I guess that makes sense. But … why do you have boxing gloves?”

“Oh, that,” said Anathema. “He said we could do something for Boxing Day.”

Crowley burst out laughing and found he couldn’t stop. “Anathema,” he wheezed, “that’s not what Boxing Day is.”

Anathema shot him a pointed look. “I know _that_ much,” she said, “I’m playing dumb American. The guy was a warrior for _Heaven,_ and you know he’s gonna be too polite to correct me, and if I can finagle some Muay Thai lessons I am _so_ here for it.”

Crowley felt the wicked grin spreading across his face as he sank down onto the couch next to her. “You know,” he said, “you’re all right. Maybe _we_ should hang out.” Crowley flipped on the TV, which displayed images of Boxing Day shoppers fighting for sales on the local news.

“Well,” said Crowley, “come to think of it, you could probably really use those gloves either way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	27. Regency

Crowley missed much of the Regency era.

No, not like he enjoyed it so much that he wanted it back; he literally missed it. Crowley slept through not all but most of the 19th century. He celebrated the bookshop opening with Aziraphale in 1800, and he ran to the bathroom a few decades later, but aside from an odd handful of moments here and there, he just sort of … skipped it.

But Aziraphale was there for it.

“I must say, Crowley, you’re being terribly rude, even for an agent of evil such as you are,” Aziraphale scolded the snoring demon in the bed before him. There was no reaction.

Aziraphale nervously rubbed his hands together, apparently having a silent debate with himself. He must have reached a decision, because he sat, as slowly as if he expected he might break something priceless, on the foot of the bed farthest from Crowley’s sleeping form. “Not that I’d expect any less from you, mind you, you foul fiend,” Aziraphale said. “I assure you, I only stop in like this to keep tabs on you. The last thing I miss is the companionship of my hereditary enemy.”

Aziraphale looked over both shoulders nervously, with the look of an angel who expects someone from middle management to appear in the middle of his extended lunch. “The only reason I haven’t discorporated you in your sleep,” Aziraphale announced theatrically, “is because then Hell might send a completely different field agent.

“One who doesn’t leave me alone for thirty-odd years!”

Crowley said nothing to defend himself.

“I believe you’d rather like this era,” Aziraphale said, a little brightly now. “The humans have come up with all sorts of manners and nuances with which to drive each other mad.”

Aziraphale sighed at the complete lack of reply, then stood to go. “Well, I must take my leave of you,” Aziraphale said. “I shan’t visit again!” he threatened (as he had the last seven times he’d visited). He started to walk out, paused, then turned and gave Crowley a glowing smile. “May you have a lovely dream,” he whispered, “about whatever you like best.” Crowley smiled in his sleep, and Aziraphale, satisfied with that, saw himself quietly out.

Crowley slept on, but he mumbled into his pillow, and maybe, just maybe, he said something about an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	28. Snowmen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I spent way too much time on this lol

> # Tadfield Advertiser
> 
>   
> 
> 
> ### LOCAL NEWS Updated 21 hrs ago
> 
> #### Snakes on a … snowbank?!
> 
> ##### Local man reports ominous “Snow Snake” cryptid sighting.
> 
>  **TA | K. T. Killjoy**
> 
>  _Move over, Elsa! There’s a new frozen character in town, and one local man is not about to let it go!_
> 
>  __
> 
>  __
> 
>  _The Tadfield Advertiser received multiple calls from our ever-persistent news source, Mr. Ronald P. Tyler (who asks that we again remind readers of his Neighbourhood Watch affiliation), until we knew that this was one case we simply could not ignore!_
> 
>  _R. P. Tyler reported that around 8:00 a.m. Thursday, while he was out walking his dog on Hogback Lane, a mysterious giant white snake reared up out of the snow by the pavement._
> 
>  _“That monster had to have been at least four metres long!” Tyler stated. “It didn’t even have proper scales, or eyes, it was like a living, breathing rope of snow! It scared my poor Shutzi half to death!”_
> 
>  _We here at TA reached out in an email to Dr. D. T. Hu, MSc DPhil (Oxf.) and probably some other letters too of the Greater Tadfield Society of Cryptozoology, who had this to say: “The Snow Snake (Latin,_ Aestatesommus hiemepericulosus) _is traditionally a North American legend, but we know that this species migrated from Siberia via the Bering Strait. Therefore, it is perfectly reasonable to suggest that such a cryptid may exist in the UK as well.”_
> 
>  _Dr. Hu continued in a paragraph that we definitely read, “It is said that a single bite from the venomous Snow Snake will turn a living thing’s blood to ice.”_
> 
>  _R. P. Tyler further had this to say: “I was never a believer in great beasts and other such woo-woo nonsense, but there is no other explanation for what I saw, and quite frankly I view it as an abject failure of the civil parish and animal control to …”_

 _“Wicked!!”_ Adam Young choked out. He and Crowley were nearly doubled over with laughter, reading the paper that Crowley clutched in his hands.

“You didn’t have to do all that,” Aziraphale said, completely unimpressed by the shenanigans he had witnessed over the last couple days.

Crowley wiped a tear from his eye. “Hey, I just built it!” he said. “I didn’t know Adam was going to animate it!”

Aziraphale frowned. “I am never making snowmen with either one of you ever again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	29. Angels

Since we survived, my dear, I replay in my mind all of the unconscionable things that I’ve said.

I have done as much ever since we started feeling out this new mode of existence. When you’re near (which is nearly all the time now), I constantly stand on a precipice of apologizing for, well, everything. Where would I even begin?

But then I ponder, how unfair can I possibly be? I think, look at him—he’s here, with you, he didn’t run, the sun is shining and he’s smiling, and you’re so incorrigibly selfish that you wish to remind him of how much you’ve hurt him, only to force him to forgive you.

(I wonder if you still believe it is you who has not earned forgiveness.)

It’s a rather cowardly thing, I suppose, to justify my never regarding the elephant in the room. But there’s some truth to what I say here, too, that my prior actions ought to remain my own cross to bear. It is a lily-livered, simpering sort of half-truth, but a truth nonetheless. If there’s one thing I’ve finally absorbed after 6,000 years, it’s that nothing is ever quite black-and-white.

_“You were an angel once.”_

_“That was a long time ago.”_

Was it, though?

You perform miracles, don’t you? Even the notion that you’re so drastically different because you can theoretically possess a human body turned out to be no more than Heaven’s propaganda in the end.

As for churches … Well. The things that go on inside their walls can come to cause mortals pain and death, too, wouldn’t you say?

Where is the line between us? You asked questions as an angel; you do great acts of service as a demon. You are ever so unbearably kind.

It’s too raw, it’s still too fresh, it’s barely been even a fortnight, how can I ever shake what I witnessed in Hell?

I’m not entirely naïve, my darling. I know they didn’t give me a trial. But they didn’t test out my means of destruction on whomsoever happened to be passing, either, now did they?

My God, Crowley—what was it like for you Down There? How much have you kept carefully concealed from me over the years, not wanting me to worry over you? When you reported on Warlock’s status, or they summoned you for any other reason … No, as a matter of fact, you were right to assume I was not strong enough to hear it, for now I cannot bear to think it.

Do they have no sense of law amongst themselves, the heathens? Just how much could they have committed against you, without repercussion?

Good Lord, Crowley, if they …

If I …

No.

Crowley, I can never comprehend the pain of your Fall, but perhaps I understand better than you know some of the grudge you carry. It is a dual-edged sword, after all. If you did not aspire to hate Her, you might cry out for want of Her. My dear, you’d never admit it, but sometimes it appears that you love Her better than I’ve ever done.

I shall resist the urge to inflict these thoughts on you out loud. You would far from welcome them.

You would never wish to hear me call you any kind of angel.

Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I assure you I would never seek to change your demonic nature. If it were in my cruel hands, the power to revert time and prevent your Fall, I am sorry to say I could never bring myself to do it. I shudder to think of you being anyone other than the Crowley I know. I want the whole of you in my life, and that means I would never erase the glorious diamond-scaled serpent I see, when you grant me the gift of looking in your eyes unabated. But again, nothing is black-and-white anymore. There is only our side.

So it is with the utmost confidence that I say: I remain undeserving of the demon that you are, and of the guardian angel you choose every day to be to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	30. Free Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the author is obviously from Pennsylvania, as she believes in the importance of pork and sauerkraut on New Year's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for December 30th was free, so you know I had to do something _COMPLETELY_ different. Here is the coffeeshop AU nobody asked for.
> 
> Dedicated to that barista who I am like 90% sure flirts with me every day, but I guess we'll never know because I'm afraid of doing anything back and being that creepy customer ... plus she thinks I'm writing the next Great American Novel and I don't know how to break it to her that it's usually fanfiction lol

Anthony Crowley _(whose green apron introduced him as Crowley and he’d be damned if his manager had anything to say about that being unfriendly or something, because no one had ever had the nerve to call Bee out on wearing a name tag that literally said “Name: Nunya, Pronouns: That/Bitch”)_ had never seen anything quite like it.

Every day (although there appeared to be no set schedule time-wise), the handsome pale-haired customer Crowley only knew from his drink orders as Ezra would come into the shop, get tea—or some sugary confection that basically amounted to little more than a hot milkshake—and sit in a corner where he could face the door. Then, he would reach inside his tartan messenger bag _(Was that some sort of ironic fashion statement?_ Crowley wondered), retrieve a Moleskine or two, and **a real fountain pen.**

Wait for it. That wasn’t even the crazy part.

Because not only would Ezra then proceed to work in pen rather than on a laptop, as if that weren’t goddamn charming enough. No, the thing was, he would actually do writing. Where any other customer might lay out a couple notebooks in an aesthetically pleasing manner and play on his smartphone until he could accidentally-on-purpose make eye contact with some skinny hipster across the neighboring table, Ezra came to the coffeehouse to write, and then _wrote things._

Bizarre, that.

He never brought any textbooks, or planners, or anything else which might indicate that he was writing because he had to. He seemed genuinely happy to sit, alone, in silence, with a hot chocolate or some other such beverage, and craft things with one of his many pens (short stories? sketches? Crowley was still not clear on that).

Ezra was adorable, and polite, and gave an air of gentle shyness, and Crowley had a downright pathetic crush on him. They made small talk at the counter over time, and Crowley would preen, and compliment him on his vintage clothes, but despite his best efforts it would appear that the one time Crowley wanted a regular to creep on him, was the only time he had a regular who was not a creep. So naturally, not wanting to be too terribly forward and risk scaring off a lovely customer, Crowley tried to give subtle hints.

Ezra always requested his order in a mug. So, Crowley had started applying a nonexistent discount every time he waited on him (you know, for being so environmentally friendly and all), and had assumed Ezra would piece together that Crowley was the only barista who ever gave it to him. But instead, Ezra would smile, and say thank you, and dump all his change in the tips jar as he had always done without ever counting to notice, because apparently Crowley was smitten with the one man on the planet who carried cash instead of using the app to pay.

Crowley would just have to kick things up a notch. It was standard procedure to call a customer to the counter when their drink was ready, but Crowley had taken it upon himself to walk Ezra’s order to his table whenever the shop wasn’t too busy to allow it. Ezra seemed oblivious that Crowley didn’t do that for anyone else, and Crowley was appalled by his own desperation. Crowley had impeccable gaydar, and the attraction seemed mutual in the way Ezra smiled at him, and Crowley wasn’t the type to thrill in the chase. But he just couldn’t help himself, every day he felt a bit more pulled to Ezra. Crowley was loath to believe in love at first sight, or “soulmates,” but something in Ezra’s face inspired in him the sense that they had known one another for thousands of years.

It was December 30th, “New Year’s Eve’s Eve” and whatnot. Crowley walked Ezra’s steaming hot chocolate to the table, praying to whatever God existed that the man would read all the hidden meaning in his lame language of extra whipped cream and sprinkles. _Just talk to him,_ Crowley thought angrily at himself. “What are you writing?” he asked.

Ezra looked startled, and Crowley fell further into feral admiration to see that he was a blusher. “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Ezra, disarmingly self-deprecating. “I was trying my hand at sonnets this morning.”

Crowley stared, unblinking. Many customers had claimed to be poets (the really obnoxious flirty ones would then extol the virtues of free verse to him), but he was fairly certain he had not heard the word “sonnet” uttered since high school English class. “Wow,” he said, mentally kicking himself for not coming up with anything cleverer to say. “That’s very impressive.”

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” said Ezra, cheeks burning pinker. “But I most certainly do try.”

“I think it’s impressive that you _try,”_ said Crowley quietly, surprising himself with his own earnestness.

There was a moment of silence between them, which was somehow both pleasant and awkward all at once.

“So,” Ezra ventured, “are you all ready for New Year’s, then?”

That was either a line, which Crowley was sure was not the case, or else Crowley feared that Ezra was making conversation for the sole purpose of being genteel, but Crowley swallowed that down and decided to roll with it. “Well,” he admitted, hoping to sound casual, “by the time I get out of here it almost won’t be worth it to try to find any parties or anything.”

Ezra looked scandalized. “My dear boy,”— _Is he really old enough to be calling me that?_ Crowley thought amusedly—“are you saying that this establishment will be open tomorrow night?”

Crowley gaped. What century was this guy from? Did he still believe blue laws were a thing, too? “We’re open,” said Crowley, “our hours are the same tomorrow and the 1st.”

“But surely you’re off New Year’s Day,” said Ezra, horrified, “if you work New Year’s Eve. I assume there’s some sort of rotation?”

 _Yeah, it’s called the “Fuck Crowley over” rotation,_ Crowley thought, bitterer than the burnt blonde roast. “Ehh, I’m on both days,” he admitted. “Late New Year’s Eve, and early New Year’s Day.” He barked out a laugh. “It is what it is, though, right?” He instantly regretted saying it, because Ezra’s face told the story of a man who just found out his favorite writer kicks puppies and makes transphobic Tweets.

Ezra looked like the gears were turning in his head. It was dead in the rest of the shop, and Crowley itched uncomfortably. He was just about to excuse himself, maybe make something up about having to wipe down the food case, when Ezra spoke. “Perhaps,” he said, sounding more than a little terrified, “I could stop in the 1st. Not,” he added quickly, “to purchase any sort of beverage. I cannot in good conscience ‘vote with my dollar,’ such as it were, to support a business keeping its employees from celebrating holidays with their families.”

Crowley almost laughed, then bit his cheek when he realized there was zero sarcasm in that proclamation. Crowley felt hot, realizing he was blushing now, too.

“I just thought it might be a nice thank-you on my part, for all your hard work,” said Ezra nervously, “if I were to bring New Year’s to you.” He paused. “What would you think about, say … some pork and sauerkraut?”

Crowley would think that would be disgusting. “That sounds great,” he said breathlessly.

It was by no means a lie. It just wasn’t the food part that sounded great.

Ezra flashed Crowley the most angelic smile he believed he’d ever seen.

 _Maybe,_ Crowley thought, _just once, this is going to be my year._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


	31. New Year's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's two days late. I'm sorry, do you have any idea how long I was drunk since New Year's Eve? I got around to writing it eventually, right? Work with me, I'm apologizing here. Yes? Good. Get in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2020. [Please accept this New Year's love letter](https://siliconealien.tumblr.com/post/190006165884/dear-good-omens-fandom), from me, to all of you ❤️

Aziraphale frequently lost track of time.

He was on one of his many reading benders. Now, for a human who occasionally fixates on literature, that might mean holing oneself up for the entirety of a rainy day and completely neglecting all calls and text messages for 24 hours. But for a celestial being who generally does not sleep, this could amount to a good three or four days rereading around the whole bookshop. There was, of course, nothing stopping Crowley from dropping in, which was in fact likely to draw Aziraphale back to reality—but there was also nothing stopping Crowley from sulking, and turning it into a point of pride to wait for Aziraphale to miss him enough to make first contact.

Not that Crowley missed Aziraphale. He had lots of other people to fraternize with.

Currently, Crowley was “fraternizing” in a busy pub, insofar as fraternizing could be understood to mean drinking in the same vicinity as other people drinking and not talking to any of them. Crowley scowled into his rocks glass as he sprawled all over the seat of his booth. It did not matter in the least to him that he was all alone on New Year’s Eve, that was just a silly human tradition, and it certainly did not make being alone any worse that this would be the first New Year since averting Armageddon.

Crowley knocked back the remainder of his Scotch and glared at the glass until it refilled itself to a proper height. He and Aziraphale saw each other at least every other day now. Crowley had fallen asleep many times on the old couch at the bookshop, and neither of them felt afraid to call the other friend now. And if Crowley was maddeningly in unrequited love with said friend, that was just fine, as it had been for the last six millennia. That was why Crowley had left Aziraphale alone tonight, because it wasn’t like they were anything to each other to where Aziraphale owed him his company.

Digging his pointy elbows into the wooden tabletop, Crowley bowed his head and studied the ice in his glass. The first of the lot started belting out “Auld Lang Syne.” They’d be counting down soon enough.

Crowley’s head snapped up as he heard the squealing of celestial feedback coming in on his right, and the reality of the bar shifted to accommodate one noticeably rushed-looking angel.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale nearly shouted to be heard over the partying patrons. “I’m so glad I found you, only you must forgive me, I had only just realized that it’s New Year’s Eve!”

“Really?” Crowley smiled, shooting for a detached smirk but missing by miles and landing on beaming adoration. “I had no idea. You don’t really go in for that sort of thing, do you, angel?”

“Oh, my dear fellow,” said Aziraphale, “if I had been thinking, I never would have left you alone on such a night.”

Crowley hoped he wasn’t blushing (he was). “It’s fine,” he said gently. “It’s just another night, right?”

“Absolutely not,” said Aziraphale. “I’m told that it matters a great deal to people that this night be spent with one dearest to you.” Crowley let his jaw drop at that but no words came, and if Aziraphale noticed he mercifully gave no indication. “Besides,” said Aziraphale, “this is something of a milestone marker for us, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley’s cheeks burned. “Would I?” he squeaked.

“Well,” said Aziraphale shyly, moving in a bit closer on the bench, “we’re going into our first year … on ‘our own side,’ yes?”

“Ah,” said Crowley, smiling shakily. “Yes, angel,” he said softly, “I suppose we are.”

“Oh, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, taking his hands under the table. “In some ways you have always been so much braver than myself, and then other times it’s been like you’ve been so afraid that you had to walk on eggshells around me.”

Crowley said nothing, simply flexed his fingers in Aziraphale’s hands, as though feeling out if his touch was real. He gazed into Aziraphale’s face, and his fondness was clear in spite of the look being obscured by his sunglasses.

“I am terribly sorry to have made you feel that way,” Aziraphale said quietly.

“S’fine, angel,” Crowley mumbled.

“It’s not,” Aziraphale said nervously.

The humans were setting up to their final countdown of 2019.

He continued: “But I think I can make it fine—”

_“10, 9 …”_

“—should I choose to be brave, this once.”

_“… 7 …”_

“It is a night of firsts, after all.”

“Is it?” Crowley asked hopefully, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands now and inching in beside him.

_“… 4 …”_

“The humans, there’s a tradition, that is to say, at midnight,” Aziraphale babbled.

_“… 2 …”_

“Oh, _**bother,”**_ said Aziraphale, catching either side of Crowley’s strong jaw and pulling him in for a deep lingering kiss.

Crowley hadn’t stopped time, but perhaps time stopped for them all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
